


Winning The Deal

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, heed the rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4557762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no summary.  This will stand alone fine, but is technically an epilogue to Dr. Watson's flatmate.  Sexytimes ahead!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winning The Deal

The cab ride was quiet and charged. Both John and Sherlock knew what was awaiting them. They also knew that to touch each other in the back of the cab would be akin to tossing the lit match into the puddle of petrol. Or starting the snowball rolling down the hill. Impossible to stop. _Bloody impossible to stop_. 

The cab stopped, John paid the hack, and both men made as little noise as possible as they ascended the stairs outside Mrs. Hudson's flat.  Neither wanted anything to delay what was anticipated.

John's hand unlocked the door to the flat, and Sherlock was already shrugging out of his Belstaff, hanging it up along with scarf.  He reached for John's jacket as well, while John set his keys down on the small table just inside the door.  

It had been driving John to near distraction, knowing that, underneath Sherlock's tailored form fitting trousers was that something special. _Something special_ , that John had earned the right to insist on Sherlock wearing.  Sherlock should know better than to make a deal with John, because whatever else John was - good natured, solid, steady, dependable - he was also extremely competitive.  And, in this case, the deal had ultimately come down in the winning column under John's name.  And Sherlock, as the loser, had been obligated into attending a meeting with him, as well as to wear those gorgeous, slim, shimmery, black satin briefs.  They left nothing - _nothing_ \- to the imagination, clinging in all the right places, sleek across the buttock, clinging along the sides, showing every ridge, nook, and cranny of the package up front.

They'd dressed rather cautiously, not wanting to specifically wrinkle any of the formal wear, but Sherlock had been extremely aware of John's presence, of the way John's eyes took in the goods, as it were.  And he'd shamelessly flaunted them, citing the sudden urge to shave (again) without trousers or dress shirt.  The light from the loo illuminated everything, and of course, Sherlock was never shy anyway, so the door was almost always open, but today, he seemed to delight in spending extra time in front of the mirror, attempting to chat casually about topics that required John to actually turn and look.  John dressed quickly in the bedroom, out of sight, afraid that if he didn't cover up quickly that they would be late.  As one of the early presenters, John had already told (warned, and threatened) Sherlock that it would be wholly unacceptable for them to arrive late.

But look at Sherlock, well, that was fine, and look, he did.  And he enjoyed.  Those black satin briefs.  By the time they were dressed, a knowing smirk of victory on Sherlock's face as he took in John's barely concealed sexual frustration, John found himself wondering if he'd won the battle but lost the war.  It promised to be a very long evening.  And Sherlock knew it.  And exploited it.  Every time their eyes met in the gallery of the conference center, Sherlock flicked his glance downward as if to remind John of what he was wearing, of what was concealed, of what only John knew about.  And of what awaited him.  

Hyper-awareness, John would have termed it.  The state of being in which a person was acutely aware of the chemical and physical presence of the other person.  Of the eye-contact that would draw eyes together from across a room.  The chemist in Sherlock would have some scientific reason why it was or was not pheromones.  But as the meeting progressed, John was connected in a way he hadn't previously noticed with Sherlock.  He'd been asked to share a few minutes about the specifics of the program he represented, which he did, sliding smoothly into presentation mode.  Completely professional, walled off from anything that had been going on previously, his mind solely focused on his aims, the few notes on the card in his hand, and the cues from the screens at the front of the room.  Thinking at all, even remotely, about his flatmate would have completely hobbled anything he needed to convey for the course of the evening.

Once the structured events were over, John and Sherlock stood near each other, fulfilling those few remaining social niceties, working the remnants of the attendees, both of them anxious to be done with the expected pleasantries (which neither was finding all that pleasant at all) so they could leave, get home to Baker Street, and be done with this tension that had been building for the duration of the day.  Or several days, really, since the bet had been wagered, the outcome decided.

And now they were home.

"How much do you care about a few wrinkles?" John asked.

"Not a whit."  Sherlock's gaze met John's, both approaching, feeling the heat emanating between them despite the chill in the air and the fact that there had been no touching yet.  "Going to the cleaners anyway."

"Perfect."  John shrugged his shoulders, letting the tuxedo jacket fall behind him as he then reached toward Sherlock's lapels.  The bow tie at the neck came loose in John's hand, with Sherlock's a real holy-crap-how-do-you-tie this-bloody-thing? and John's a clip on, because, as John pointed out, they look the same and who-bloody-cares anyway? version.  In the end, John was right, it didn't really matter, and both ties ended up on the floor, forgotten, discarded.  John drew his hands down around Sherlock's waist, sliding around hip, anxious to get his hands finally around the satin-wrapped goodness that awaited him.  He'd been tormented long enough for the duration of the evening, and he'd had enough resisting.  Their lips came together, tongue and teeth and heat, breaths mingling as John pulled Sherlock's hips toward his own.

John kissed him again, one of resolution and control, and he eased his body away, sliding a hand between them to push their bodies apart.  The expression on Sherlock's face as he did so was one of wanton frustration - eyes half closed, mouth open in a come-hither pose, his indignance on having the sensual onslaught halted.  "Bedroom.  I have plans for you.  And I want to see you."

John locked the front door, flicked off the light, led the way down the hall, with Sherlock close behind.  He crossed to the corner of the bedroom, choosing a light that was softer, a bit more dim than any overhead would be.  Sherlock stood, watching, waiting, allowing John to set the pace.  If it were up to him, they both knew, they would already be on the bed, John topping, Sherlock on his back, knees drawn up.  But John had, typically, more restraint and was far more into prolonging, stretching it out, taking pleasure in the slow build, the slow burn, the sizzle between them.  And John had already been on a simmer for the course of the evening, and he already knew exactly what he wanted.  He just hoped he was going to be able to last.

Turning back to Sherlock, he kept a safe distance (out of arms' reach, knowing that they were long arms) and he slid out of his shoes, followed by socks.  Sherlock was waiting for direction, a bit puzzled, but, for the moment, seemingly agreeable.  John untucked his shirt, slid himself up on the bed, ankles crossed, leaning on a pillow.  

"Shoes."  A quiet statement.  The soft lighting and late hour made Sherlock's eyes dark sapphires of brightness as he took a knee, untying and sliding off shoes in turn.  Socks followed at John's nod, and Sherlock rose again, wriggling his long toes into the carpet fibres and flexing his feet.  "Come."  Unhurriedly, Sherlock moved to John's side.

"I take it you meant, come over here, and not _come_..."

"Obviously."

"But ambivalent directions."

"Wanker."

"And it would be difficult without some additional stimulation."

John raised his hand to Sherlock's shirt buttons, undoing them from the waist upward.  With each freeing access of the shirt, he slid the backs of his knuckles against the softly furred skin beneath.  Once the shirt was open, John reached further inside, not to slip it from Sherlock's shoulders as he was expecting, but to tease pink nipples into erect points, eliciting a bit of a gasp as he rubbed, then squeezed, his touch firm.

"Belt."  John moved his hand away as Sherlock complied, tossing it in the vague direction of the wardrobe.

From that point, their eyes met again, held.  Both wanted the tactile stimulation, to touch, to knead, to revel in skin on skin.  John swallowed hard, reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand he'd placed there earlier.  Taking a swig, he found it refreshing, offered it to Sherlock (it was declined).  "Turn around."

Not what Sherlock was expecting, but his eyes blazed a bit as he turned, keeping his head to the side in order to appreciate John's attention.  "I've been wanting to watch you all night.  And then when I could watch you, the jacket was _in the way_."  He heard the roughness in his own voice, the need, the want all right at the surface.  "Slide your hand..." and John mimed what he wanted, sliding his hand down along his own side.

Sherlock colored just a bit at that, doing something he'd never been asked before and under such scrutiny, but he took one hand slid it from waist to mid thigh, held it there, his hip angling out as he did.  The intimacy of the moment and the lovely vision before John sent tingles and swelling right to John's groin.  His cock was hard, probably leaking already, and John resisted the urge to adjust things beneath his own zipper, knowing contact would be both welcome and unwelcome - just yet anyway.  "Beautiful," John whispered, feeling his own cheeks flush as the word of praise slipped from his throat.  "Please let me see..." and he had to clear his throat then, continued, "Trousers."

A quiet, feral moan came from John's throat then, as the trousers took blasted forever to remove and be tossed from the line of vision.  If the briefs had been clinging and revealing before, they were nearly obscene now.  The coronal ridge was firm, raised up, protruding through just beneath the elastic band at Sherlock's waist.  The ridge at the bottom of the shaft stood out as if the briefs were painted on, full stop, breathtaking.  Without a conscious decision, John found himself out of bed, his hands reaching for the hanging dress shirt to brush it away, nearly cursing the garment for having the audacity to block any of his view.  John went to his knees, hot breath ghosting down Sherlock's chest, biting quickly the nipple he could see, lips touching navel, his tongue coming to touch and taste skin at the top of Sherlock's waist.  He drew the slight rounding there into his mouth, sucking gently, then angled his head over toward iliac crest, seeking the sexy indentation there that angled down the hard plane of Sherlock's belly.  Pressing his face into the black satin, he breathed deeply of the fabric, scenting musk, sweat, clean linen, Sherlock's soap, and arousal.  His tongue came out of it's own accord, pressing warmth and heat to Sherlock's cock as it grew even harder at John's nearness.

Forcing himself to back up, he brought his mouth in again quickly alongside his hands, admiring the feel and touch and hardness that waited.  His hands slid around behind, grabbing lean handfuls of Sherlock's bum and upper thigh, then pulling them closer and harder against his mouth.  Again without a conscious decision, John's hands reached in, took Sherlock's rock hard cock out over the waistband, lowering the pants in order to taste.  His tongue found moistness, drew it in, kissing and sucking gently on just the tip and drawing a visceral moan from Sherlock.  The contrast of the black satin pants against the wiry pubic hair in the dim lighting made the fabric look more shimmery, and John drew his hand around the briefs, feeling the tautness of hard muscle under his hands as he slid them down, allowing more access and freedom of movement.  Sherlock stepped out of them with one foot, unwilling to interrupt longer than necessary.  John's mouth had toyed with just the end of Sherlock's cock long enough, and by mutual need, John swallowed the length inside as Sherlock spread his feet wider for stability.  There was already some pulsating under John's tongue, and his hands reached around to bollocks and perineum to feel tightening as arousal increased.

Sherlock's hand steadied John's head, gently holding blond hair as they settled into a quick rhythm, John knowing when to apply more suction or more tongue activity based on experience or the pressure of Sherlock's hands or a breathy, verbalized encouragement.  Both realised that he was very, very close indeed.

There was a warning, "John!" and John took the whole length again, feeling pulsations begin under his fingertips, which had found both anus and bollocks and felt the spasmodic beginnings, that ended with a hot mouthful until it was swallowed.  John held firmly, holding carefully and avoiding the oversensitive head through Sherlock's orgasm, until the last of the pulsations were over.  Sherlock was trembling, his skin moist, hot, and his hands shook alongside John's face as he stroked.  Their eyes met, a conveyance of tenderness and trust.  Sherlock's softening cock slid out of John's mouth gently, a final application of suction along the top as John released it completely.  

His knee joints both popped as he stood, working the kink out of his legs as they both smiled a bit at the noise.  Sherlock kicked off the remaining pant leg, eased John back toward the bed.  His knees touched first, and as he sat down, Sherlock took hold of the shirt he was still wearing, deftly removed buttons and then pushed him supine onto the center of the bed.  Sherlock reached for the pillow, and John raised his head to allow Sherlock to slide it under.  John raised both arms up over his head, sliding his hands beneath to watch.  He appreciated Sherlock's attention to studying his skin, the inspection and almost worship of muscles and angles and hair, and tonight, Sherlock did not disappoint.  His mouth skimmed the well-healed wound, applying suction to his nipples in turn, hard just the way John liked, and then he sat up, his hip next to John's, Sherlock's hands reaching for John's trousers.  There was no hesitation, no slowly removing anything, instead functionality and efficiency of movement.  Buttons undone, fly open, and it was here at that very moment that John was grateful for the pillow.

"What the hell?"

John couldn't stop the reaction and laughter bubbled out of him as Sherlock sat back and stared.

" _Have you had these on all night?"_

"What kind of question is that?" John asked.  "Of course I have."

John had purchased, and was wearing, a pair of red satin pants identical to Sherlock's, except for color.

"And you didn't _tell me_?"

"You've heard of show and tell, yes?"  He grinned at Sherlock's rapt expression.  "It was a secret. A surprise."

" _Oh.  My.  God_."  Sherlock finished opening the trousers, grabbed them, and John had no other choice but to raise his hips to facilitate removal of said trousers.  It was either that or be dragged onto the floor.  "They're _red_."

"Your observatory skills are intact I see.  Yes, they are indeed red."  John continued to be rather amused even as Sherlock reached a hand to the front of the pants, holding tightly and pressing the rigid flesh beneath them.  John couldn't recall the last time he'd been quite this hard, and it was really rather uncomfortable.  "I take it you like them."

"I'm just sorry I didn't know you had them on."

"I'm glad you like them, Sherlock, really and truly I am.  But..."

"Yes.  Off.  They need to come off.  Immediately."  John raised his hips again as the garment was removed, only to have Sherlock's mouth slide over his cock, tasting and licking, drawing him deep, but only for a moment.  Reaching a long arm under the pillow, Sherlock withdrew the bottle of lube, used it to liberally coat John's cock, then briefly reaching his fingers down further, sliding into John's hole, briefly saying hello and waiting until John moaned, his cock twitching in anticipation, then removed his fingers.  Raising up on his knees, Sherlock offered the bottle to John's fingers, allowing him to ease one, then two fingers inside.  Sherlock impatiently lined up John's stiff shaft with his entrance, unwilling to wait very long at all.  The slide in was slow and careful.   John waited until Sherlock had relaxed before moving much, and, as Sherlock was controlling the rate and depth and rhythm of their joining anyway, it was not a long wait.  The pleasure between them both was exquisite, and it didn't take more than a few minutes before Sherlock felt John's cock swell and tighten even further inside him before the orgasm hit, powerfully, the tremors close together before slowing down and eventually easing all together.  John's arms had tightened reflexively as he rode out his orgasm, with Sherlock holding him tight about the shoulders until it was over.  He then slid carefully off, making the slightest wince despite knowing John wouldn't be happy about it.

Sherlock turned, keeping his knee between John's legs and his head resting on the pillow over John's shoulder.  There was comfortable quietness as they relaxed, heart rate and breathing returning to normal, the sweat drying on their skin enough that finally Sherlock reached down and pulled the duvet up and over them, stopping first to reach over and turn out the light.

"Promise me something," Sherlock muttered.

"It depends on what it is."

"Git."  There was a pause in the darkness, and after a moment, Sherlock continued without the promise.  "If you ever wear those to a crime scene, you can never - ever - tell me about it."

 

 


End file.
